Qeya River "if only, if only," the woodpecker sighs

Even if there is something about him that holds her interest, despite the stench of a pack he bores—however, something is missing to the scent that she can’t quite place—she keeps her distance. She doesn’t move should he want to get closer, but extending her own invitation remains reserved. Thuringwethil watches him, eyes glued to his form, and as he offers her a submission, however small, her chest puffs up accordingly. A subtle action for the small victory.

There’s a slight curl to her lip, showing her teeth for a brief moment, as he speaks. He already knows where she resides, stating he’d passed by once before, and now here he stands, at the lake below her mountain. It isn’t a farfetched idea that she might be here, scouting her territories nearby, and so with a quiet flick of her tongue, she offers an, “is it?”